


Trauma and Transition

by BatsAreFluffy



Series: Would you Give Me No choice in This?// You know I can't resist. [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice Lords - Fandom, Justice Lords universe - Fandom, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alpha Superman, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Major death of previous characters, Murder, Omega Bruce Wayne, Past Rape/Non-con, heed the tags, tw: dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatsAreFluffy/pseuds/BatsAreFluffy
Summary: His own ignorance of the previous night’s events was ending. He could feel the slickness between his thighs, the sting of alien cum on ripped flesh. He needed to retreat to safer ground, to the cave, where he could defend himself, where the boys were ...... his thoughts screeched to a halt.Sequel to Perception and Punishment
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Lord Batman/Lord Superman (Justice Lords Universe)
Series: Would you Give Me No choice in This?// You know I can't resist. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039641
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74





	Trauma and Transition

_Bond Shock – medical term \-- A hormonal cacophony that battered the delicate balance of an omega gland, often triggering an abbreviated false heat. Symptoms included dizziness, disorientation, disassociation, nausea and memory loss. Duration can be from an hour to over a week, wherein the omega has no ability to protect itself._

_See also – mating cycles, bonding rituals, Toxic Hormonal Elevation Syndrome._

Lucius put the phone back in his coat pocket, sighing. Bruce still couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. If he was quiet, the crowd of people still milling about would have thought him dead. Lucius stroked back the soft raven locks, and tried to shush him. “Bruce, come back, he’s gone, it’s over Bruce,” he murmured quietly into the young man’s ear.

Bruce lay where he had fallen, tears rolling off his nose onto the floor. The soft hitches in breath rang through the silent hall. The scent of fear and blood choked the hall. The few omegas in the room had been pulled away by their mates, to protect their delicateness. Several Alphas were shifting uneasily, the sound of an omega in distress warring with their conscious self-preservation instinct.

“Move,” an older woman’s voice rang out, pushing past several Alphas. Mrs. Vreeland strode toward Lucius. Veronica, stumbling behind her mother, carried both their evening coats in her arms, burying the poor girl in fur.

“Mr. Fox,” she greeted, kneeling gracefully in her evening gown. “I took the liberty of fetching your coats.”

Lucius smiled slightly, taking his coat from the younger woman. “Much appreciated, ma’am.”

She waved off the thanks, pulling her own cloak from the pile. “It’s hardly enough, but he’ll need to stay warm until he gets somewhere with a proper nest.” Mrs. Vreeland shook out her cloak and laid it over Bruce. “It’s a horrible thing,” she said lowly, “forcing a bond like that.”

Bruce’s shoulders shook as another wave of tears flowed. Where the cloak’s edge touched his fingers, they curled ever so slightly into the fur trim.

Vreeland handed Lucius a set of keys. “The valet brought my cavalier around back, at the staff entrance. Take it, and go take Bruce away from the press. They are already at the front.”

Lucius swore under his breath. “Ma’am, I can’t find the words to thank you properly,” he began.

Mrs. Vreeland leaned over Bruce, laying a gentle kiss on his brow. “I’m so sorry, dear boy,” she whispered. She turned to Lucius. “Just go.”

* * *

He awoke in a wash of whiteness and light.

Stiffly, he rolled onto his back. He could feel the give of a mattress under him, the heavy weight of quilts and blankets on top. He knew, without opening his eyes, that they would be a cacophony of colours, made ages ago by a woman long since passed. She’d never seen what her son had become.

Bruce envied Martha Kent that ignorance.

His own ignorance of the previous night’s events was ending. He could feel the slickness between his thighs, the sting of alien cum on ripped flesh. His throat throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he’d be lucky to not have a black eye by the end of the day. He could vaguely remember Lucius carrying him up the stairs to the Hall. The older man’s voice reassuring him that things would work out, and he’d be there for Bruce, but the words died when Lord Superman had descended and taken the omega in his arms. He’d passed out again to the feeling of teeth in his gland.

His eyes focused on the white wall across from the bed, a few framed photos of Superman in his youth smiling back at him. Bruce wondered, for a fleeting moment, if he and Superman could have worked together, before the Lords. Before martial law and domination.

Bruce sat up slowly, hissing at the pulling of bruised flesh. Nothing felt broken, aside from his ribs. He’d fought with more injuries. These would not stop him from leaving. Retreat to safer ground, to the cave, where he could defend himself, where the boys were ... his thoughts screeched to a halt.

The boys.

Alfred.

Drawing a deep breath, he slipped out of the bed, and glanced around. The boys were fine; they were in the cave. It was the safest place he could make for them. Alfred ... Alfred would keep them safe. He just needed to get there. He needed to see them. He needed – clothes. The evening suit still hung from his body, shredded and ruined. His coat, however, was hung neatly from the coat tree in the corner, jarring brown in the white room.

Bruce opened the left hand set of drawers, and stopped. He stared at the softly folded clothes, shock trying to shut his brain off. They were his. Soft shirts, casual slacks, all of it was his, from the manor, from his _room_. Pulling another drawer open, he found socks, boxers, garters and belts, all neatly rolled and arranged.

Bruce swallowed, pushing his feeling of horror back into the dark recesses of his mind. Get dressed was the top priority. After that, breaking out, and then home.

Shrugging his coat on, he crouched beside the door panel. A few twists, and a hidden screwdriver in his breast pocket, and the control panel was off the wall and the wires exposed. He’d made quick work of the plans from the Justice Hall when he’d first joined. He’d also, unbeknownst to Cyborg, added his own layer of coding into the system, just in case. Paranoia kept you alive. Switching a few wires, and reassembling the door system, Bruce punched in the altered, grandfathered code into the locking system. 

The code worked. Bruce’s face gave a twitch toward a smile. He slipped through the narrow access door, and outside into the evening air. Two deep breathes, and Bruce walked quickly toward the row of civilian vehicles at the curb. The first two were too conspicuous, the next a van with too high a roof. The fifth one, a plain Honda civic in dark grey, would suit nicely.

It was less than two minutes to break into it, start the engine, and pull into traffic. He slipped through the light evening traffic, driving steadily toward the countryside.

* * *

The manor was dark, which, given that it was nearly midnight, was to be expected. Slipping inside the window, he fiddled with the cabinet beside the coatroom, pulling out the safety flashlight. A couple of shakes, and the energy beam popped on, showing the way to the door. Bruce took a deep breath, and started searching.

The kitchens were the first place to check. Alfred would keep tea at the ready for late night stakeouts. He was sure that the butler would still be awake at this hour. It was barely ten o’clock. Bruce had seen Alfred start calling this time of evening the middle of his day. From down the hall, Bruce could see the light pouring out from the track lighting. His shoulders sank a hair’s breath, even as the hairs on his neck prickled. Surely, he tried to reassure himself, Alfred and the boys must be enjoying a late dinner before going out.

With no smell of food cooking. 

And no sounds.

Bruce knew what would be in that kitchen, even as his fingers touched the open door, pushing. He knew that the table would be set, glasses poured, napkins ready. His feet carried him around the table, to the counter where a roast sat, still in its sauce and surrounded by squash and asparagus. He reached out, hoping.

Cold.

Bruce shook his head, and pulled back. They could be in the cave. If someone was injured in Lord Superman’s attack, they might still be down there. There was food, he reasoned, walking quietly out of the kitchen. There was a microwave, and food stores. If one of the boys was seriously hurt, the others wouldn’t leave them alone. It made sense, he thought. It had to.

He swung the flashlight back and forth, hoping to see an errant schoolbag, or huge sneakers waiting to trip him as he climbed to the second floor. Even entering the drawing room, facing the clock, he knew. He didn’t want to. He wanted this time to be different, to not have that memory seared into his psyche. To close his eyes and not see other bodies, pearls mixed with batarangs and baseballs. He wanted to be someone else, to be free of everything that he’d ever seen. An average person, coming home late from the office, checking on his sons before turning in for the night. Anything to avoid seeing beyond the clock.

He moved the hands, and stepped inside.

The stench of waste and decay hit him, choked him. Pulling his sweater sleeve down, he edged his way into the dimly lit staircase, and descended.

Into still chaos.

* * *

There was blood, he would remember later.

There was a fire still burning in the main server banks to the left of the stairs.

There was smoke drifting through the driveway, coming from the slag of metal that was the Batmobile.

There was destroyed furniture, crushed consoles, burned wreckage the length and breadth of the cave.

But these would be things Bruce would remember later, after years of nightmares. Like he remembered that Mother had clipped her nails in her fall. It will just come to him, reading one morning about a new variety of avocado. He won’t be ready, but then, he wasn’t really prepared when he walked the last three steps into the cave proper, and died.

**

Bruce shook. His whole body shook. Even as he stared at the massive pool of blood and other materials settled around Dick. There was nowhere to stand that wasn’t in that pool. Bruce couldn’t stop shaking, even as he backed up, even as his stomach seized and vomited. He should get closer, he should check, even though he knew – knew – that Dick was –

His heel brushed another object.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t make any sound at all. He backed up one step, turned, and did not scream.

Audibly.

Souls don’t, generally, make any sounds.

He stood, shaking. His whole body shook. Even as he stared at the massive pool of blood and other materials settled around Jason’s – body – limbs bent and broken and severed. He shook, and he died, and he was still breathing, but that wasn’t him. It wasn’t Bruce. It wasn’t, he wasn’t Bruce, because being Bruce was too hard, too much, too much death and pain and suffering and he wasn’t Bruce anymore because Alfred wasn’t here, hadn’t made it the station yet, and for a little while he _needed_ to not be the shattered shell of a person –

He choked on bile, rising to clog his throat. The dead teens made no comment for the walking dead soul that had once been their father. They could offer no words of comfort, or platitudes, or warm smiles. The walking soul stumbled backwards, towards the computers, reaching out for something to hold onto.

Something crackled under his boot.

For a moment, Bruce revived. He’s going to be so disappointed you stepped on his glasses again, his mind whispered. Third pair this year. There was a standing order at the office for replacements – he broke them so often.

Broke.

That was the kindest way to acknowledge the last body. Empty kryptonite casings lay around him. Empty casing for an old shotgun that barely resembled the original model. So much so that he had to special commission the bullets for it. Alfred never asked him to make them, but he had.

Just in case.

Just in case he needed to defend the boys, or himself, from a threat that nothing could take down.

Bruce died, soul screaming into the void, even as he sank down in the drying blood. Bruce ceased to be, as he collapsed onto the stiffened, cold chest. The softness of the Burberry coat whispered its sorrow into his cheek, even as his heart collapsed in on itself. He slipped away, into the nothingness in the space between lines in a book.

Until the nothingness was broken.

Until a voice broke it as fine crystal from a rocket heading into space.

Until the owner of the voice floated down from his vantage point and settled a few feet away.

“Are you finished, yet, Omega?”

The last dead soul did not respond, neither in voice, nor flinch nor breath. Only a single tear, moistening the corner of a fine English coat, worn by a fine English father figure, answered the voice.


End file.
